


Those Words

by all-or-nothing-baby (BundleOfSoy)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Angsty Dean, Angsty Schmoop, Canon Universe, Cas guides Dean Home, Castiel (Supernatural) is So Done, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Castiel Wants Dean Winchester, Castiel Wants Dean Winchester to be Happy, Castiel is telling Dean How It Is, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Castiel/Dean Winchester Mutual Pining, Dean Winchester Can't Cope, Dean Winchester Can't Say "I Love You", Dean Winchester Logic, Dean Winchester's staggeringly low self-esteem, Dean and Cas 'Toes In The Sand', Dean is In Over His Head, Done Waiting, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nature Versus Nurture, POV Dean, POV Dean Winchester, Pining Castiel (Supernatural), Pining Dean Winchester, Post-Purgatory (Supernatural), Post-Purgatory Dean Winchester, Power of Words, Schmoop, The Power of Castiel's Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-18 00:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18975214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BundleOfSoy/pseuds/all-or-nothing-baby
Summary: Us.Oh, God.Dean is a goddamn mountain. Unmoving, only static; he'll just stand here, an unyielding mass. Stand the test of time. Forever.He still can't make his eyes pitch up at Cas. All he hears, over the sound of his heart hammering in his chest cavity, is that terrifying, off-limits phrase. It rings like church bells in his ears, loud as Cas' true-form voice in that abandoned gas station in Pontiac, Illinois, all those years ago...Those Words. Over and over.ORThe one where Cas is done waiting--and poor Dean is terrified.





	Those Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiberAmans214](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberAmans214/gifts).



> An extended and updated version of a Tumblr ficlet written for the incredibly lovely Sheya A.K.A. Beanburger.
> 
> Shey-Shey: I love you 3000, babe.

Dean peers over at Cas, eyes wide and stunned yet timid, silently asking: _but why?_

See, Dean knows he can't have the things he dreams about; can't have the warm affection he privately craves; the gentle closeness he so badly needs; nor the quiet loving he hopelessly longs for. And shit, the want? The burning want for… _hell,_ since when did Dean Winchester ever get what he wanted? Exactly.

_The Tenth of Goddamn Never._

A grunt like him? Nah _._  The things he craves are strictly for other people. Decent people. _Normal_ people. Dean isn't worthy of such precious things. Fun times and a quick fuck, sure. But Dean deserves nothing, more than a bit of dirty flirting and the odd lusty, one night--if he's lucky--hook-up. Dean knows he isn't worthy of _more._

Resigned eyes now fall away from Castiel's.

Cas, the complete freakin' psycho, has just come right out and said _things_. Actually said _Those Words_ , the frighteningly magnificent combination of words straight out of Dean's most intimate dreams. _No_ , not the super kinky ones. And not even the schoolboy vanilla ones. Dean's _other_ dreams; his secret, coveted dreams. In _those_ dreams Dean is afloat on the Ocean of Content, free and unsinkable and at peace... instead of starring in his very own certified loony-toon horror show, where sorry-ass whimpering, shaking, and screaming--borne from his crap-tastic, sea-storm nightmares--are the only things on the call-sheet. But in the furtive, floating-in-the-deep-blue-drink dreams? Yeah _,_  Dean thinks he knows a little of how flying must have felt for Cas.

His stomach bottoms out at such speed with the harsh reminder that always follows that particular thought: it's Dean's fault Cas lost his wings.

Dean reaches out carefully to steady himself on the motel room wall that's a foot too far away. A now-closed-off throat attempts to unsuccessfully swallow down Sickening Guilt, which ironically tastes a lot like an unintentionally gulped mouthful of salt water.

Then, fast as the nauseating memory saturated his thoughts, his glutton-for-punishment-mind is scrambling to bring back the undeserved but indescribable feelings he’s gifted with during his oceanic, Cas-centric dreams.

After  _those_ dreams, Dean awakes with a real-deal, genuine article, Honest-To-Betsy smile, plastered all over his ever-tired face. He just lays there a while, on foam that remembers him--in what seems to have become his too-big bed inside the bunker--momentarily happy and dazed and with a wicked buzz which beats any goddamn drug… Dean Winchester: all soft-faced and flashing gnashers, brandishing all-new crows feet to add to the collection. And most decidedly not a little dewy-eyed. _Nope._

After  _those_ dreams, Dean always tries so damn hard to cling to the unique and heady yet fleeting sensation, for as long into his crazy, shitty day as his cruel mind will allow.

_…Warm, saffron light and an azure sky; crystal waves lapping idly at twenty toes in the sand; tan arms hooked around a soft, freckled waist, breezy smiles playing at perfect pink lips; and Those Words--frightening and magnificent and meant only for Dean--giving him so much more than he'd ever even known he wanted, before Cas..._

Yeah, _those_ _dreams_ are Dean's salvation.

But they're just dreams.

So, snapping back to the here and now--Cas, blurting out the stupidest, softest, most beautiful fucking things Dean has ever heard in his whole entire goddamn life, outside of his dreams; and, to boot, aiming them at an undeserving meathead whose boyish good looks are waning _fast--_ is all a little hard to handle.

Like, Jawbreaker candy kinda hard.

Cas really shouldn't be giving such special things to Dean. Because Cas should have someone so much better than Dean Deadbeat Winchester to give them to. Cas himself is so much better. Therefore, Cas is deserving of better.

Dean's stoic logic has never failed him yet.

But it's seemingly happening. Dean's dreams are playing out in front of him in real-time, and there’s not much he can do to stop the madness. Like, he could try and walk away, sure. But he annoyingly cannot stop an ever-stubborn-as-fuck Angel of The Winchesters from following. Or from continuing to shoot his infuriatingly gorgeous mouth off.

So, just unbelievably like that, Dean's Top Of The List, Numero Uno, Particularly Secretive & Covert Dream (the ocean one with _Those Words_ Cas _definitely_ shouldn't be giving him) has become his reality. A stark, fucking panic-inducing reality.

Dean is gonna either burst forth with an involuntary rendition of _AC/DC's 'Thunderstruck'_ (guitar intro included) or full-on puke his guts up all over Cas' size elevens.

And then--other words. Quiet but insistent rumbles, breaking through Dean's pinball thoughts like far away thunder claps through dark clouds.

"Please look at me, Dean."

Dean is a marble statue; immobile, still. He can feel Cas' unearthly gaze burning into his stony exterior, bright as an ancient dying star.

"Can't." Dean's own shameful gaze burrows into the floor and right through concrete, tunneling through dirt, down to molten freaking crust. Where he belongs.

"But you can, Dean," Castiel tells him, "because I _know_ you feel it too."

Dean is an oak; planted, rooted. Fists balled, teeth clenched. He's solid, like two hundred-year-old trunk. Can't even blink.

"Dean, I've known since Purgatory. In that ungodly place of everlasting death, where I heard your every prayer. I heard _all_ of them, remember? The ones where you hoped I was still alive and safe, where you yearned for us to be reunited; the ones you broke down during, telling me everything you couldn't say in life, making promises of reconciliation, protection, and ardour; the ones where you needed me, when you... you _wanted_ me... and, Dean, when you finally then found me and I… when we…" Cas cuts himself off. Dean is both intensely relieved and devastated.

"And after we returned, you were... just that, actually. _Returned. T_ o the way you were before: reserved and inhibited and resolute. But I understood, Dean. I had to.”

Cas takes a breath he doesn’t really need.

“So, I returned also, to the _before_. To the _not-fully-you-and-I_. Because I believed you must have needed time to heal. To… _allow_ yourself those things you so clearly craved. I thought it then, as I still think it now. So, Dean, you see, I was just waiting--and have been ever since I suppose--for you to be at ease with... _us_."

Us _._

_Oh, God._

Dean is a goddamn mountain. Unmoving, only static; he'll just stand here, an unyielding mass. Stand the test of time. Forever.

He still can't make his eyes pitch up at Cas. All he hears, over the sound of his heart hammering in his chest cavity, is that terrifying, off-limits phrase. It rings like church bells in his ears, loud as Cas' true-form voice in that abandoned gas station in Pontiac, Illinois, all those years ago...

 _Those Words._ Over and over.

"But then I came to the--rather obvious, once I’d realized--conclusion, Dean: you truly believe you don't deserve any more than your own mortality. Therefore, you don't think you can ever have happiness, or achieve contentment; Dean, you are so damn pig-headed and scared that you just won't allow yourself _this_."

Dean can _feel_ the strange brew of pity, sadness, vexation, and disbelief dripping from Cas' parlance.

This. More.

_Fuck._

It's too much.

 _This_ is too much to take in, to deal with; too much of what Dean craves. And utterly all of what he _needs_ and  _wants,_  all at fucking once.

 _Us_ and _This_ and _Those Words_ are the _More_ he hasn't earned, isn't justified to claim ownership of.

Dean's now putting his money on the puke scenario.

"Dean, how many parts of your life are conventional, with regards to _"societal norms"_?" Dean sees Cas punctuate speech marks with two fingers of each hand, in his hunter-sharp peripheral.

After internally rolling his eyes, his brow knots at this untrustworthy change of topic, the statement jolting him enough to force his mouth to move.

"What? Uh, none. I guess." He clears his sand-dry throat, nervy and all-at-sea-with the question.

"Dean, to put it into terms I _know_ you will understand: I am and always will be your friend."

Jesus Christ, Cas, _Star Trek?_ Dean both loves and loathes Cas' now-extensive pop culture knowledge, courtesy of Metatron: The Ultimate Douche.

But the reference does nothing to lighten his heart. Dean swallows down more rising, salty bile.

"I know you better than literally anybody or anything on Earth, or in Heaven or Hell, Dean. Yes, Sam obviously has been--and always will be--a bigger part of your life, granted. But it was _me_ who rebuilt your soul, Dean. Me. From rage and torment and the blackest plumes of smoke, I nurtured and cared for it, restoring it, beautiful piece by beautiful piece, back to the most vivid and gloriously shining light I had ever encountered--or ever will encounter. I _know_ you, Dean. I know what you _want_ and I know what you _need._  So, how could letting me in and allowing yourself _more_ be anything other than a good thing?" Dean now hears frustration. A years-old irritation, itching away at Cas like an old scar on a damp day.

Cas isn't always right, but when he is, he's infuriatingly accurate. And Cas happens to currently be so very infuriatingly accurate, Dean's blood is at a high simmer just below the surface of his skin, about to boil and bubble over.

Dean is such a fucking coward. He says nothing.

"If these things are so unconventional in your mind, then please tell me, Dean, how is the prospect of you and I sharing _more_ any different from anything else we share, hmm? For the sake of humanity, how could allowing me to take care of you be so absur--"

"I can take care of myself, Cas." Dean’s eyes now flick up defensively, pride finally breaking his rigidity towards the insanity of this situation.

No, not like a dying star. Like nothing else Dean has ever seen.

_Only Cas._

That gaze and those words are at once reminding Dean of his abject and wretched value--yet somehow bathing him in soothingly warm light, washing him clean of shame.

Cas' gruffer than usual tone has goosebumps accompanying the many freckles which speckle Dean's battle-scarred skin.

"Yes, I know very well you can, Dean," Cas bristles, his eternal patience finally wavering, "as you can obviously take good care of Sam, too. And Jack. And everybody else on this literal Godforsaken planet."

Both angel and human fingers alike twitch with gravitational pull.

"But you don't have to do it _alone."_ Castiel takes a tentative yet purposeful step forward, the frustrated ice in his tone now melting a little, eyes once again full of alluring hope _._  "Dean, you could let me in. You could let me say those words to you every day for the rest of your--"

Dean is a Tsunami. A mighty torrent, gushing at breakneck velocity; a force of unstoppable nature, he is surging forwards.

It's the only move he has left.

Flooding the angel's personal space, Dean's rough hands frame Cas' softly stubbled jaw, as he slams their lips messily together like surf on rocks.

Dean is a skull-shaking seastorm, hearing is his own stupid voice yelling in his head, screeching out a gull-like sound, screaming: _What the fuck, Dean? ‘Best Friend’, you dumb shit-- 's all you get… gonna mess up the only good thing you got? Cuz messin’ up’s the only way you know how..._

Castiel is very still for a tenth of a second. It's an actual fucking eternity for Dean.

But then Cas is kissing back. Ferociously, at first. All curling lips and wet tongue and teeth, bold and frenzied like crashing waves...

Then slower. Carefully. _Lovingly._

Castiel and Dean are coral underwater, gliding and shimmying in sync. Their mouths melding; a singular movement; fluid; becoming one. Their kiss is binding them in a brand new way, as powerful as it is gentle. _Like the ocean._

Cas is a glowing candle flame in the dark, guiding Dean. His warmth brings calm, a stilling of the waves of Dean's squall. Slender hands now grip at Dean's hip bones, finger pads pressing possessively into flesh beneath flannel, grounding him like a ship's anchor. 

And then, somehow--for maybe the first time in his pathetic life--Dean's inner monologue is no longer self-deprecating, screaming out hoarse, unkindness. It's chanting a new mantra: _Cas... Cas... Fuck, it's you, Cas... You I crave, you I want, you I need, ‘s you I... Dammit, Cas, I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you..._

Dean allows a whimper to crawl up and out of his throat, a substitute for words he can't yet form.

 _This_ is unreal--yet so fucking real. Everything he wanted. Not just a kiss, _This_ is Dean's _More._

Castiel pulls away first and Dean feels as if he's lost a limb.

"Dean," Cas breathes, but no other words follow for now. Both bodies simply still for a moment, eyes closed and panting softly. Dean can only think of how _all_ of the moments to follow have been forever altered. And, if he’s being honest, there’s a little portion of brain power for how freaking _steel-hard_ he is.

The angel's familiar, resonating growl then fills the barely-inch between them, hot breath fanning Dean’s still-swollen lips

"I'm thinking the phrase _'I told you so'_ may be appropriate to use in this particular situation." Cas sasses in his most domineering tone, the one which always goes straight to Dean's dick. Dean senses perfect pink lips ticking upwards into a small, smug smile.

"Smart-ass" Dean just about manages to murmur, still breathless, voice breaking as his full lips curve, lopsided, to a slight, snarky smirk.

Eyes still closed, hands scrunched in trenchcoat where it covers Cas's broad shoulders, Dean leans down marginally, pressing their foreheads together.

"Anyways, it was either kiss you or puke. I'd already given up on the singing being an option."

Dean opens his eyes to one adorably confused Rebel Angel--and smiles a real-deal, genuine article, honest-to-Betsy smile.

Breathing in deeply, Dean’s brain almost short-circuits. Cas is the best goddamn drug in the world and Dean would swear a whiff of him could substitute any freaking painkiller and heal him of all ailments. He’s replenishing, rejuvenating. _Like sea air._ His unearthly scent fills Dean up, somehow pricking every single one of his senses at once:

His ears catch distant seagulls, sounding a little like him and Cas, whose calls now scream: _at last!_

Scarred hands are still touching, holding on tightly to his very own rock. Cas is a sturdy cliff-face, weathered only minutely over thousands of years--until Hurricane Dean hit at full force.

Dean sees pure contentment stood there, right in front of him, as he always has been. The hunter hopes-against-hope to goddamn hell and back he always will be.

And Dean can taste only love. It tastes like Castiel.

_Dean and Cas: toes in the sand. At the very edge of the breathtaking Ocean of Content._

"Say it again, Cas." Dean whispers, a little dewy-eyed.

_Say Those Words._

Dean isn't dreaming. He knows he's awake because the clear, unique blue of Castiel’s dizzying gaze turns a wondrous sort of aquamarine with the reflection of Dean's own glistening, seagrass green stare.

They stand there, holding onto each other, together. _At last._

"I love you, Dean."

_Those--no, My Words._

And Dean knows. _This_ is even _more_ than floating in the ocean...

 _This_ is flying.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed another DeanCas First Kiss-fic. Maybe I'll stop writing them, one day... or maybe not.
> 
> Buckets of thanks for reading. Purdy please leave kudos if you liked it, and comment if you want to scream at me--for any reason!
> 
> Lucy : )


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